The Only One of His Kind
by Raven of the Shades
Summary: He ran away. He joined forces with a squirrel with an axe to grind, a mouse who single-handedly drove a flock of crows from his home, and a mysterious fox who may just be the savior of them all... Rated for violence. I do not own Redwall. MAJOR renovation
1. The Squirrel's Tale

A sparrow gazed down from its perch high up in the Abbey clock tower. Above it, the weather vane spun regally. Crafted from the strongest steel, the depiction of a flying horse gazed upon its wooded kingdom. Sounds of laughter and general merriment floated up from the Abbey grounds. Today was Midsummer's Day, a day when the mice of Redwall threw a festival. Several Dibbuns were happily splashing in the shallows of the Abbey pond, shrieking with delight as the fish brushed by their footpaws, the elders dozed in the summer's heat, and a garrulous hare snuck vittles from the feast table.

"Away with you, Millie!" A plump old mousewife smacked the hare's paw soundly with her ladle as she reached for an apple tart. "Those tarts are for the feast, and I won't have any hares leaving us with crumbs to eat!" The hare, Millie, drew away, nursing her hurt paw.

"Nae, yer wrong there, Sister Heather! Yon hare willnae leave nothing, the lassie will et the crumbs, too!" A shout distinctly laced with a northern burr came from up a pear tree. A rustle of leaves accompanied a young squirrel hanging by his footpaws on a thick limb, trying desperately to keep a plaid beret from falling off his head. A patch covered one of the squirrel's eyes.

Father Abbot Orlando came hurrying over. He cut a slightly comical figure, almost tripping over his homespun green habit, he rushed toward the pear tree. "Come down from there before you injure yourself, you scallywag!"

The squirrel, whose name was MacEvans, leaped neatly down from the branch. "Nae need tae git yer habit in a twist, Orlando! I knows yon orchard like the back o' me paw. I cuid leap around here nae touching the ground blindfolded, wi' one paw behind me back!"

Harmile, an old Regiment hare, came to the Abbot's defense. "Yes, I knows this chap's the youngest h'Abbot ever h'appointed, but that's got to be for some bally reason, eh wot? Why not give the lad a blinkin' chance! Now, do come down from there, you young rip. Scoff's being served!" The hare hurried away to his seat at the table, right next to an enormous plum and damson pudding.

Trying desperately to regain his injured dignity, Orlando vainly attempted to call for order. Foremole Bruffy beat a ladle across the bottom of a copper pot. The sound reverberated around the Great Hall until everyone was silent. Bruffy winked at the Abbot. "Hearken t' ee Abbot. Us'ns has t' say ee grace if'n we wants t' eat."

BOOOM! The doors to the Great Hall slammed open. A crew of otters stood in the doorway. The otter leading the group said, "Just about to say the grace, Father? Well, good!" She cried out in a singsong voice:

"We sits down to table  
>This fish we do carve<br>Now let's git t'feasting  
>Afore we all starve!<p>

Wild applause from the Dibbun's section of the table greeted the otter's short poem.

"Forget about us, will ye now?" The otter who had spoken took her bows and directed her comrades towards the table.

"Wavelash, wha- ooohh, that's right!" Orlando smote his forehead with one paw. "You were invited!"

"S'alright, Orly." Orlando winced at the sound of his nickname. "We all forget things. And it's not Wavelash anymore, 'tis Skipper!" The otter proudly flaunted her new leadership role.

While Orlando was congratulating the newly appointed Skipper of Otters, Dally Cellarhog was holding his own in a heated debate with MacEvans. The squirrel defiantly refused to tell anybeast about how he lost an eye.

"Nae, ah willnae be a-tellin'. Mah bizness is mah bizness, ye ken?" But Dally would not let the matter rest.

"Oh, ye went a-gallavantin' off three seasons ago, hale and hearty, and widout so much as a by-your-leave, he comes back all beat up, and one eye missin'. That's too big t'go unnoticed. Ye won't speak a word of it, so naturally, everybeast wants to know. Come on, Mac! Tell us!" MacEvans glared at the impertinent Cellarhog. Dally had attracted a crowd.

"Yah, give the ould chap some breathin' room. Can't say much if'n he's hemmed in by you young rips, wot?" Millie snatched a bowl of candied chestnuts and winked at MacEvans. "Go on, we're all watching. No pressure!"

The squirrel finally gave in. "Och, all righty then. Seems as if ah'm ootnumbered. 'Twas three seasons ago, the time when ah ran away from the h'Abbey..."

~O~

The young squirrel glanced back at the Abbey, making certain none were following him. Sighing with relief, he opened his pack and drew out the two dirks he had stolen from the Abbey armoury. Strapping them crossways across his back, MacEvans trudged on. In the growing dawn he could see the edge of Mossflower Wood. He didn't, however, make out the masked fox standing betwixt the trees. Humming lightly, MacEvans was scarcely aware when he was clubbed over the head. Sparks swam, and he lost consciousness.


	2. Friend or Foe?

Fenn was a tree squirrel, born and bred. She could leap from the highest boughs to the ground without batting an eyelash. She feared nothing. Except foxes. Foxes, especially the vixen that had slain her family. How young was she, all those seasons ago? Awakening from a deep slumber to a cruel slash across her face. Blood everywhere. Foxes, mangy foxes everywhere. Her mother screaming, urging her to escape with a bow and quiver. Her father slashing valiantly to protect the babes. Herself running away like a coward. The pain, oh, the pain! The slash on her face widening, she could not see properly. Her vow for revenge. Tearing up the willow tree, bow in paw. Every one of her arrows had found a home in vermin flesh. Every one, but the vixen.

Fenn stifled a sob. She shook off the unwanted memory. She could not witness that again! She stalked through the trees, following the fox.

She had seen it all. The strangely-dressed squirrel wandering into the woods. The masked fox beating him into unconsciousness. The fox dragging the squirrel through the woods. She had to do something.

~O~

MacEvans felt something cold splash his face. "Wake up, wake up!" a voice very close to his ear whispered. He tried to brush away the cold thing but found he couldn't. His arms were bound tightly to his sides. MacEvans decided to do what the voice bid him and opened his eyes. A very pretty squirrelmaid was glancing around furtively. A scar ran across her right eye, rendering it useless. In her hand was a well-made, but well-used, longbow. Over one shoulder was slung a quiver of arrows.

"Och, a braw bonny lass has come tae set me free!" he quipped, struggling with his bonds.

The squirrelmaid seemed a little puzzled at his accent, but she leaned close and whispered, "_Shh._ We haven't got much time before _he_ wakes up." She gestured toward a fox, sleeping with his back to a nearby tree.

"Well, lassie? Ye think ye cuid cut these ropes? Ah seem tae be a wee bit restricted here." The squirrelmaid seemed to stifle a giggle. She drew a dagger from her arm sheath... and froze.

"Not so asleep now, am I?" The fox had a kind voice, kinder than he would have expected with vermin. Though he wasn't able to see the fox's face, MacEvans was put slightly at ease by the kind voice."Sorry about clubbin' ye over the head."

MacEvans blinked. He had never, in his life, heard a vermin use the word "sorry" before. "Yah, well be sorrier!" he spat. "Cut me oot o' these ropes, an' we'll see who's sorry aboot what! An' come o'er here where ah can see ye. Ah dinnae like no' seein' mah enemies' face, d'ye ken?"

The fox turned around slowly. MacEvans gaped. The fox's face was almost completely covered by a hard white mask, tied behind his head with a black silk ribbon. All that could be seen of the fox's face was his mouth, grinning slightly. And the eyes- or eye, to be precise.

The single slit-pupiled eye gazed upon MacEvans, devoid of expression. The other hole in the mask did not contain an eye, merely a dark abyss that seemed to go on forever. Then the fox spoke, his lips hardly moving.

"Good on the face thing, squirrel? And whoever said i was your enemy?"

"You did! You knocked him out, tied him up, and now you're insulting him! Get a hobby! He has a name, you know." The squirrelmaid spoke up for the first time.

"Och, a braw lassie. Ah do have a name, but ye dinnae get tae hear it afore ah've got yers." MacEvans stuck out his tongue insolently.

"He's right, and introduction would be nice." The fox smiled a ghost smile and bowed cordially. "The name's Reske. An' if ye keep callin' this lassie "lassie", she might get mad, d'ye ken?" Reske attempted to imitate MacEvans' northern accent.

The squirrelmaid scowled. "Fenn, and your northern accent is terrible. Stick to your own."

"Looks like ah'm guid now, then. Mah first name, you lot dinnae get tae know. Call me MacEvans, Mac if ye really must. And now that we knows each other, why did ye tie me up and where are me dirks?"

"You still have yer weapons, Mac." Reske gestured at the dirks, still strapped across the squirrel's back. He drew a dagger and sliced through the ropes binding MacEvans to the tree. The squirrel jumped up and drew his dirks. Twirling them in a glittering mass of scything steel, he lunged. He slammed his elbow into the fox's stomach, and pushed the flat of one blade into Reske's neck, the other he raised, poised to strike. Fenn drew her bow and fitted a blue-fletched arrow to the taut string. When MacEvans spoke, his voice was a deadly hiss.

"Now, fox, answer me truly. Ye willnae play any games wi' me. Why are ye here? Why did ye capture me just t' set me free, armed tae? Lie an' ye die, d'ye ken? Answer me, fox!"

Reske gingerly pushed the dirk away from his unprotected neck. He sighed. "This is going to take some explainin'." He pushed a haversack of rations toward both squirrels, quivering in righteous anger. Fenn drew out an apple, cut off a small piece, and tentatively sniffed it.

"It's not poisoned," she said, mildly surprised. "Would've thought the bugger would kill us off now, save himself any annoying things like fear, pain, and death later on."

Reske looked hurt. "Why would I poison you? I have no need to. Now that I'm pinned down by these blades in less time that it would take to sling an insult your way, I'm thinkin' I need you."

MacEvans twirled his twin blades meaningfully. "Explain, fox. Now, afore ah slice ye tae bits." Reske took the hint.

"I started out how any other foxbabe does, really. The bottom o' the food chain in a vermin gang. Bit, scratched, used for amusement purposes only. Then one day, I had a chance to prove myself. As an initiation to become proper gang members, we had to kill something and bring back its head. My mateys went for the birds, one for a hawk, one for a crow, but I had gotten it into my head that I would get the head of the Scourgetail. The Scourgetail was a pike that had been haunting our only source of water since who-cares-when. We would be perfectly okay, bringin' up water from the lake and fishing for the smaller fish that lived there, but every once in awhile, that fish would go huntin'. Now, it didn't get the name Scourgetail for nothin', see. This fish would slap the water with its huge, flat tail, and it would drench our camp and anybeast unlucky enough to be standin' by the lake. Then, it would strike. It grabbed whoever was closest, with teeth like knives, and drag the poor beast to the bottom and the water would run red." Both MacEvans and Fenn shuddered, imagining the gristly sight.

"So anyways, I was gonna knock that fish's block off. I would bring back the whole body, not just the head. I never did pass up a good meal before. So, I hatched a plan. I would throw bits of fish into the water, as bait, then, I would wait. When the Scourgetail took the bait, I would strike. I would net the thing, and drag it up the beach and finish it once and for all. I would be hailed as a hero, possibly be made leader, and we would all get a fine meal in the bargain. But then everything went wrong. The first part of my plan worked like a charm. I netted that fish on the first try. Of course it tried to escape. What beast in their right mind wouldn't? I dragged it in, but before I could reach for my javelin, it bit free of the net and went for my face."

Reske slowly untied the ribbon holding the mask to his face. Upon removing it, Fenn let out a stifled scream and MacEvans gasped.

Reske's face was a cruel graveyard of raised scars, unhealed slashes, warped skin, and patchy fur. It was a gruesome sight to behold. A livid red gash ran from ear to jaw cutting through where the fox's left eye used to be.

Reske sighed. "I almost killed that fish. And it almost killed me. I dragged myself back onto shore, half dead, and I will never forget what Zariss said to me: 'We don't keep weaklings, Reske. That's why I killed your father. He was weak, so you are, too.' I had always been told my father was killed by the flock of crows living by our camp. That day, I made a vow that if I lived, I would kill every last one of them, make them pay." Reske retied the mask about his nightmarish face.

MacEvans's eyes were shining. "Ah willnae e'er forget ye, Reske. It seems ah was more'n mistaken, ah was dead wrong aboot ye. Yer the only decent fox ah've e'er met. But ah still 'ave a question. Why did ye capture me?"

"It was a test, you see. A test of honor. I have been watching that Abbey you hail from, and you have been up on those walltops, always ready to defend yourself and others. I've seen you turn away those vermin gangs with ambitions of glory, and offer service to friends in need. You were the very one I had in mind for the task I have." Reske turned to Fenn. "I have never met you before, but you have the look of a seasoned warrior who could kill with a single arrow. I have some thing to ask of you both. Will you join my cause?"

Fenn's single eye was like a chip of obsidian. "Zariss. The one who took my family, and my eye. Yes, I will!" She stood up sharply, thrusting the end of her longbow into the ground.

"Ah know nought o' this Zariss, but anybeast who leaves a comerade tae die, kills young 'uns and wounds innocents, must be stopped. 'Ere is mah paw and 'ere is mah pact!" MacEvans sheathed his dirks and helped Reske up. "Ah'm wi' ye 'ole'heartedly, Reske."


	3. The Mysterious Wasp Flinger

((It has recently come to my attention, that in the book _Eulalia!_, there is a female squirrel named Fenn (Bluepaw, Recorder of Redwall Abbey). I want to assure you that this is an entirely different Fenn.))

The three travelers camped there that night. MacEvans created a lean-to from dead branches and their cloaks. Fenn boiled water to make a stew.

"What're you making, Fenn?" Reske inquired. "Looks questionable to me." It did, indeed, look questionable. The stew was a thick, lumpy, light brown mixture. It bubbled slowly, an air pocket bursting ever so slowly to the surface. The aroma of long-dead fish berated Reske's nose. He twitched visibly, and took the smart choice, leaning up against a tree on the far end of the clearing. "I'll stick to an apple."

Fenn didn't look up from dicing a peculiar red root into her concoction. "Why don't you try some of my stew, Reske? It's almost done! Just needs a little tad of hotroot." Fenn dumped a heaping pawful of the spicy root into the pot.

"A _little?_" Reske muttered. "An otter would have trouble stomaching that mess." MacEvans finished the lean-to. He curiously approached the pot, sniffed tentatively, and made a U-turn right around to where Reske was sitting.

"Why are you all sitting over _there?_" Fenn wanted to know. "The delicious stew is over _here. _Look, it's not that bad. Just, well, oddly colored." Fenn dipped her paw into the mixture and tasted. She retched. "_Yechhh!_ What was I thinking?"

Reske and MacEvans sighed, glad that Fenn had come to her senses. "What was I thinking?" she repeated. "This stuff is no good without salt!" Adding the ingredient, Fenn approved the stew to be palatable. "Come on, guys! This is really good!"

"Um, I think me and MacEvans should... hmm, look for berries! Yes, that's a good idea. We'll look for berries, _won't we,_ Mac!" Reske nudged MacEvans pointedly.

"Weel, yes, a guid stew allus goes well wi' a berry salad! Lead meh tae th' berries, Reske!" MacEvans tried not to breathe in the acrid scent of the stew. He sheathed his dirks across his back and handed Reske his lance and cutlass. "Protection, just in case." Reske saw sense in MacEvans's statement, and accepted the weapons.

A half hour later, the foragers still had not found any berries. "Ye think we cuid go back there an' attempt eatin'. There's allus stew, ye ken."

Reske groaned. "Yes, there's always stew. Hey, look at that!" He pointed at a tree with small black berries hanging from it. "Mulberries!" He handed the haversack they had brought along to MacEvans. "You're the squirrel here. I couldn't scale a tree to save my life."

MacEvans sighed, then tied the sack to his arm. He began to shinny up the mulberry tree. As he was reaching for the first berry, something stung his paw. Clinging onto the branch with his other paw, he inspected the injured digit. A small welt was beginning to rise out of the chestnut brown fur. He reached for another clump of berries. Another small projectile zipped into his paw. MacEvans caught it before it fell to the ground.

"Somebeast's a-flingin' deid wasps at me, Reske!" He waved the wasp.

"Well, fling somethin' back," the fox tossed a pebble up to MacEvans. He caught the pebble, and made as if to grab another berry. When a third wasp came zipping out of a clump of leaves, MacEvans threw the pebble at where the wasp came from. He was rewarded with a small "Ouch!" and a wasp in his direction.

"Ah dinnae ken tha' did much o' anythin'. Give 'ere a bigger stone." Reske tossed up a small stone, jagged at the edges. MacEvans shook his head. "Nah, Ah dinnae want t' hurt th' pore lad." He dropped the stone back down.

A muffled voice came from the clump of leaves. "Pore lad? Pore lad? I'm no pore lad!" A hail of dead wasps came raining down on MacEvans, and he scampered down the mulberry tree to safety.

"I don't think he likes you, Mac." Reske's tone was jovial in spite of the fact that they had no berries, and a new malcontent in their area. "We should probably get back to Fenn. She might be uprooting the whole forest for new things to put in that terrible stew of hers."

~O~

Arriving at camp, MacEvans and Reske found, to their chagrin, two bowls full of stew set out for them. Fenn was happily eating a third bowlful. When they stepped into the clearing, she declared, "Hey, you two! Got any berries?" When they explained what had happened, Fenn smiled. "Well, it's a good luck i found these chestnuts to go with the stew! I didn't want to use anything that could be kept yet, just in case."

Upon eating the stew, MacEvans discovered that it wasn't as bad as it looked. Or smelled. In fact, it gave him a warm sleepy feeling that caused him to nod off in front of the fire.

MacEvans dreamed. Images flashed by in a blur. Reske lying on the ground, face torn and bleeding. A young Fenn, barely out of Dibbunhood, fletching arrows with a murderous expression on her face. A black vixen, leading a horde of twoscore. A mouse, whirling a sling. Then another mouse, clad in shining armour and carrying a wondrous sword. MacEvans recognised the second mouse. Martin the Warrior!

Martin spoke. "Find the Wanderer. He will join your cause. But disguise your identity. The Wanderer is an old friend best acquainted only once." The dream faded. Upon waking, MacEvans tied a bandanna across his face, and sat in the lean-to, practicing his southern accent.

((Now I'm beginning to regret making MacEvans northern. The computer is hating me because I won't let it correct the words I've supposedly misspelled.))


End file.
